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SACRED  HEART  IN  THE  MOUNTAINS 
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"  Bishop  Haid  entered  into  all  the  Plans." 

THE  SACRED    HEART    IN    THE    MOUNTAINS. 
By  Dorothy  Gresham. 

I. 

E  speak  of  the  promises  of  the  Sacred  Heart,  we 
pray  with  apparent  faith,  and  yet  we  are  so 
astonished  when  we  are  heard. 

Last    May,  by    the    merest  accident,    I    found 
myself  in    one    of    the  wildest    and    most  beauti- 
ful   mountain    villages  of    the    Blue    Ridge.       I  came  for  a  day, 


1 894.]        The  Sacred  Heart  in  the  Mountains.  629 

and  left — well,  you  shall  hear.  Week  followed  week,  and  still 
I  lingered  ;  the  mountain  world,  the  negroes,  the  Southern  life 
and    scenes    were  delightfully  new,  and  I  learned  to   love  them. 

Sunday  was  the  only  black  cloud  on  this  sunny  horizon  ; 
no  Mass,  no  priest,  no  Catholics  as  far  as  I  could  find  out. 
Writing  to  an  invalid  friend  of  mine,  then  staying  in  Asheville, 
I  mourned  over  the  sad  state  of  affairs  ;  all  it  wanted  here  was 
a  statue  of  Our  Lady  or  some  wayside  shrine  to  give  my  sur- 
roundings all  the  historic,  holy  atmosphere  of  the  Tyrol.  My 
letter  was  like  a  trumpet  to  a  war-horse,  as  I  suspected  ;  but 
I  thought  that  prayers  would  and  could  be  all  the  assistance 
my  appeal  would  receive.  Miserable  in  health,  far  from  home, 
and  utterly  unknown,  what  else  could  one  expect  ? 

But,  with  years'  experience  of  all  that  a  truly  apostolic  heart 
can  accomplish  when  God's  work  is  to  be  done,  the  following 
note,  a  week  later,  fairly  took  my  breath  away  :  "  Get  a  cottage 
on  the  hills  for  me  suitable  for  Mass.  The  bishop  has  pro- 
mised to  send  a  priest  for  the  feast  of  the  Sacred  Heart.  I 
shall  be  with  you  on  Tuesday  ;  there  is'  one  Catholic  family — 
let  them  know  !"  No  time  for  delay  after  that.  I  succeeded 
luckily  about  the  house — it  was  all  that  could  be  desired — gath- 
ered the  barest  necessities  to  make  the  same  habitable,  hunted 
up  the  "  only  Catholic  family,"  and  found  them  full  of  Irish 
faith,  so  amazed  at  my  news  that  they  could  scarcely  believe 
me.  They  told  me  there  were  some  more  through  the  moun- 
tains, lukewarm  and  indifferent,  and  others  whom  they  only 
suspected  were  Catholics.  Not  encouraging  to  greet  my  friend, 
but  we  must  only  hope. 

She  came,  feeble  in  body  and  strong  in  mind,  now  slowly 
recovering  from  a  long  illness,  sent  down  to  Asheville  as  a  last 
resource  to  save  her  life,  and  this  is  how  she  goes  about  it. 
The  good  bishop,  who  is  also  the  mitred  abbot  of  the  Benedic- 
tine monastery,  has  fully  entered  into  all  her  hopes  and  plans, 
promising  her  Mass  through  the  summer  months.  To  do  this 
he  must  needs  send  one  of  his  hard-worked  monks,  who,  with 
the  dust  of  the  schools  thick  around  him,  comes  forth  to  preach, 
teach,  and  toil  among  those  hardy  mountaineers,  winding  up 
his  journeys  each  Sunday  at  fashionable  Asheville.  This  the 
vacation  of  a  North  Carolina  missionary — this  the  rest  he  takes 
for  the  summer ! 

Those  brave  Benedictine  fathers  came  here  six  short  years 
ago,  poor  in  money,  friends,  and  pupils,  to  find  only  a  frame 
hut  and  log  chapel,  innocent    of  paint.      The    altar    decorations 


630  The  Sacred  Heart  in  the  Mountains.         [Feb., 

were  pictures,  cut  from  papers  and  magazines.  The  first  act  of 
the  abbot  and  his  young  monks  was  to  arm  themselves  with 
paint  buckets  and  brushes  and  begin  ornamentation.  Their  trials 
and  vicissitudes  would  fill  volumes.  How  they  began  with  thir- 
teen pupils  ;  to-day  they  have  over  a  hundred !  How  the  lord 
abbot  himself  milked  the  cows,  Until  he  had  instructed  a  negro 
boy  to  take  his  place.  A  magnificent  college  to-day  replaces 
the  old  log  building,  and  the  foundation    was  laid  one  year  ago 


"I   TROT   AROUND    THE    PIAZZA   AND    PREPARE    FOR   A    CLIMB    UP   THE    HlLLS." 

for  the  finest,  church  in  the  South,  to  take    the  place  of  the  lit- 
tle frame  cathedral  of    North  Carolina. 

Over  the  mountain-tops  the  sun  is  climbing,  with  Southern 
brilliancy ;  down  through  the  trees  he  pours,  and  gleams  in 
golden  streaks  through  my  shuttered  windows.  I  rub  my  sleepy 
eyes,  and  see  by  the  clock  it  is  half-past  five — high  time  that  I 
should  be  up  and  doing.  My  first  emotion  is  one  of  joy,  even 
before  I  remember  what  it  comes  from  :  as  is  often  the  case, 
the  last  thought  at  night  is  usually  the  first  in  the  morning — 
then  it  slowly  dawns  on    my    drowsy  senses. 

I  jump  from  my  cot,  now  all  animation  ;  my  encounter  with 
the  soap-bubbles  is  short  and  decisive,  and  dressing  the  work 
of  moments.  I  throw  wide  the  outside  shutters — the  windows 
are  never  closed  night  or  day — and  step  out  on  the  piazza. 
How  beautiful  it  is — sweet,  fresh,  and  enchanting !  Who  would 
lie  abed  with  such  a     feast  awaiting  them  ?      Through  the  trees 


i8o4-]        The  Sacred  Heart  in  the  Mountains.  631 

the  mountains  do  their  best  to  peep  at  me,  and  I  return  the 
compliment  by  admiring  glances;  which  seems  to  please  them, 
for  the  more  I  smile  the  bluer,  lovelier,  loftier  they  look  down 
at  me.  I  trot  around  the  piazza,  down  the  deep  steps,  and  pre- 
pare for  a  climb  up  the  hills.  Not  a  sound  save  the  cow-bells 
in  the  woods,  which  keep  up  a  steady  jingle  ;  not  a  human  be- 
ing in  sight ;  up  amid  these  solitudes  men  are  few  and  far 
between  ;  the  village  street  lies  beyond  the  woods  still  slumber- 
ing. Nature  has  a  bright,  joyous  awakening  air  ;  birds,-  flowers, 
and  forests  seem  to  cry  out  in  one  glad  voice  "  Vivat  Cor  Jesu  /" 
It  is  the  feast  of  the  Sacred  Heart,  and  I  am  on  my  way  to 
the  temporary  chapel  for  this  first  Mass  of   promise. 

The  sun  is  rising  higher,  and  I'  tramp  along  up  .  the  winding 
road  through  the  woods ;  the  trees  are  so  dense  that  I  lose  my 
beloved  mountains,  but  now  and  then  catch  a  passing  glimpse 
of  cosy  farm-houses  peeping  through  the  pines.  It  is  so  pure, 
so  unworldly,  so  heavenly'  up  here,  all  alone  with  God  and  the 
mountains ;  and  I  think-  of  this  great  gift  awaiting  me  at  the 
end  of  the  road.  Who  would  believe  that  our  Lord  would 
crown  all  his  blessings  to  us  by  this  much-longed,  much-prayed- 
for  favor.  "  Vivat  Cor  Jesu  /"I  echo  with  rejoicing  nature  this 
morning. 

A  turn  in  the  road  brings  me  in  view  of  the  Swiss  chalet 
on  the  hills,  its  red  roof  shining  through  the  trees,  its  pictur- 
esque gables  and  angles  racy  of  the  Alps.  Through  the  open 
gate,  by  the  rugged,  steep  avenue,  I  reach  the  steps  ;  the  win- 
dows opening  to  the  ground  are  flung  back  ;  through  the  first 
I  enter  and  find  myself  in  the  chapel.  How  shall  I  tell  you  of 
it?  One  side  is  all  windows,  the  other  the  altar;  one's  first 
impression  is  great  branches  of  oaks  banked  against  the  walls, 
flinging  out  in  soft  colors  the  blazing  roses  and  flickering  lights 
on  the  altar.-  A  picture  of  the  Sacred  Heart  crowns  the 
whole. 

I  kneel  among  the  small  congregation,  who  are  evidently  as 
impressed  as  myself.  At  that  moment  the  father  arrives,  and 
what  a  greeting  he  receives  !  An  old  Irish  patriarch  meets  him 
at  the  steps  with  a  genuine  "  Cead  mille  failthe";  a  great  Saxon 
giant,  the  village  blacksmith,  seizes  his  hand  and  kisses  it  with 
deep  veneration,  while  his  reverence  comes  in  the  door-way 
bright  and  joyous  as  a  school-boy  home  for  the  holidays. 
What  a  beautiful  spirit  those  Benedictines  seem  to  have,  al- 
ways working,  always  smiling  !  The  confessions  begin  ;  in  and 
out  through  the  open  windows  the  penitents  come  and    go  from 


632 


The  Sacred  Heart  in  the  Mountains. 


[Feb., 


the  chapel  to  the  confessional — the  father's  room  next  door. 
How  memorable  that  Mass !  Priest  and  people  are  lost  in 
prayer  at  that  one  great  Sacrifice.  Down  the  long,  wide  corri- 
dor, through  the  open  door,  rising  and  falling  comes  "  There's 
no  Heart    like  thine,   sweet    Lord  ";  and  the  mountains  take  up 

the  strain  and  echo  back 
their  great  exulting  "  Vivat 
Cor  Jesu  /" 

Every  one  goes  to  Holy 
Communion.  For  many  it 
is  their  Easter  duty,  for 
some  it  is  their  first  in  five 
years,  for  others  even  more  ; 
the  Sacred  Heart  has  gath- 
ered them  all  in. 

The  father  says  a  few 
words  on  the  feast,  and 
begs  the  little  flock  to  thank 
the  Sacred  Heart  for  the 
great  blessings  of  to-day, 
and  to  ask  him  to  give 
them,  though  deprived  of 
the  comforts  of  religion,  a 
living,  loving,  burning  Cath- 
olic faith.  By  the  door  sits 
Aunt  Mattie,  in  her  Sunday 
cap  and  gown,  drinking  it 
all  in,  her  black  eyes  roll- 
ing with  the  deepest  inter- 
est. She  is  wife  of  the  colored  Baptist  preacher,  and  asked  if 
she  too  might  not  assist  at  the  Mass.  She  is  radiant,  and  de- 
clares she  will  never  miss  that  fine  "  service "  no  more  "  if  de 
white  folks  don't  hab  no  'jections."  The  father,  she  goes  on  to 
say,  "  is  jest  booful,  he  acts  so  nice,  speaks  so  pretty,  and  looks 
so  lovely."  As  the  congregation  troop  down  the  steps  one  en- 
thusiastic lady  exclaims,  "  Oh  !  was  it  not  like  the  first  Christians?" 
but  is  brought  down  from  the  clouds  by  the  cool  rejoinder 
of  a  mountaineer,  "  No,  ma'am  ;  it  was  more  like  the  late  sin- 
ners /"  However,  fervor  marks  them  as  they  move  away,  and 
time  will  prove  the  efficacy  and  power  of  this  first  Mass  of  the 
Sacred  Heart.  Before  leaving  the  father  had  asked  them  to 
send  their  children  each  Sunday  for  instruction  to  their  new 
friend,  and  he  would  say  Mass  here  every  Thursday  through  the 


"By  the    Door  sits    Aunt  Mattie,  in 
Sunday  Cap  and  Gown." 


1 894-] 


The  Sacred  Heart  in  the  Mountains. 


633 


summer.      The    news    seemed    too    wonderful,    and  at  first  they 
could  not  realize  it. 

The  work  begins  ;  two  small  boys  and  a  girl  put  in  an 
appearance,  then  the  older  ones,  finally  the  whole  congregation, 
numbering  eighteen  souls,  assemble.  The  catechism  lesson 
develops  into  the  beads,  then  some  hymns  are  introduced,  the 
Epistle  and  Gospel  are  read,  and  then  eleven  o'clock  is  decided 
on,  to  be  in  spirit  with  the  Mass  then  being  said  in  Asheville, 
and  the  Sunday  devotions  and  reunions  become  a  precious  in- 
stitution. Under  the  broiling  Southern  sun  they  come  down  the 
mountains,  many  walking  miles  with  the  greatest  enthusiasm  ; 
generosity  seems  to  be  the  spirit  of  this  little  flock. 

II. 

The  bishop,  hearing  of  the  fidelity  of  his  new-found  moun- 
tain flock,  sent  word  that  he  himself  would  come  and  confirm 
them  in  the  faith  ;  and  then  they  did  think  that  heaven  had 
come  down  to  them!     He  arrived  for   the  feast  of  the  Assump- 


Across  the  Mountains  to  see  the  Bishop. 

tion,  and  it  was  a  great  day  truly ;  nothing  was  spared  to  make 
it  a  memorable  one.  To  all  the  bishop  was  a  stranger — this 
was  his  first  visit. 

The  little  chalet  on  the  hill  seemed   suitable  for  every  emer- 


634  The  Sacred  Heart  in  the  Mountains.         [Feb., 

gency  ;  the  parlor  had  long  been  abandoned  as  too  small,  and 
here  was  the  novel  and  perfect  chapel.  The  hall  ran  the  whole 
length  of  the  house,  wide,  lofty,  and  handsome,  over  seventy 
feet  long  and  ten  broad.  At  the  main  entrance  there  was  a 
deep  recess,  the  large  oak  door  being  flanked  by  long  French 
windows.  This  was  turned  into  the  sanctuary.  The  altar 
stood  against  the  door,  and  draperies  caught  up  by  the  papal 
colors  made  a  soft  and  effective  background  ;  two  large  pine- 
trees,  the  bishop's  seal,  stood  graceful  sentinels  on  either  side 
of  the  altar,  which  shone  in  the  gorgeous  coloring  of  the 
sunny  South.  Flowers,  wreaths,  and  plants  were  brought  in 
triumph  by  the  children,  the  court-house  benches  did  duty  as 
pews,  and    the  whole  was  unique. 

The  bishop's  first  request  on  his  arrival  was  to  see  the 
"chapel,"  and  he  pronounced  it   "perfect." 

From  early  morning  the  people  gathered  across  the  moun- 
tains, and  the  place  began  filling  up  fast.  The  First  Communi- 
cants in  white  knelt  reverently  near  the  altar.  The  Mass  be- 
gan. Not  a  sound  ;  awe  and  wonder  seemed  to  take  possession 
of  them  all,  over  a  hundred  people  seemed  as  one;  many  from 
the  lower  States  up  for  the  summer,  and  some  Protestants  who 
had  come  to  see  what  a  Catholic  bishop  was  really  like ;  the 
colored  preacher  knelt,  the  most  interested  spectator  of  all. 
Five  received  their  First  Communion  from  the  hands  of  the 
bishop,  their  ages  ranging  from  ten  to  twenty-four  years. 

His  lordship's  instruction  sank  deep  into  the  hearts  of  his 
hearers.  He  said  the  ceremony  of  to-day  must  remind  them 
strongly  of  the  First  Confirmation  ;  it  was  in  a  house  the  Holy 
Ghost  had  come  on  the  apostles,  as  he  had  on  those  children 
just  now.  There  were  no  churches  in  those  days,  as  there  were 
none  here  in  those  beautiful  mountains ;  but  as  the  apostles 
were  then  in  their  spiritual  infancy,  so  to-day  we  do  not  know 
what  great  things  God  has  in  store  for  us  here  in  the  moun- 
tains and  the  faithful  people  gathered  round  his  altar  this 
morning. 

When  all  was  over  the  congregation  went  slowly  and  quietly 
homeward,  winding  down  the  long  drive  through  the  trees.  The 
Methodist  preacher  stood  looking  longingly  at  the  large  crucifix 
above  the  altar,  and  then  turning  away,  he  said  solemnly,  "  If 
dere  be  any  true  church,  that's  she,"  pointing  back  at  the  pa- 
thetic white  figure  on  the  cross !  Aunt  Mattie  was  there,  and 
her  spouse,  the  Baptist  pastor.  Before  Mass  she  came  to  me, 
radiant,  with  some  colored  friends  of  hers,  to  know  if  she  might 


1894.] 


The  Sacred  Heart  in  the  Mountains. 


635 


not  bring  them  to  see  "  de  bishiip."  Her  pride  as  she  led  them 
forward  was  indeed  great,  her  back  expressive  of  the  deepest 
satisfaction.  Once  I  caught  her  glance  during  Mass,  and  it  was 
a  beaming  one,  as  much  as  to  say  all  was  going  on  just  as  she 
desired    and    thought    proper.     .     .     . 

Golden  autumn  has  settled  down  the  mountains  ;  the  Bene- 
dictine father  has  gone  back  to  the  abbey,  and  the  old  priest 
from  Asheville  has  promised  to  come  as  long  as  the  weather  will 


A  Mountain  Spring  by  the  Way-side. 


permit  through  the  winter,  and  well  does  he  keep  his  word.  For 
twenty-three  years  he  has  been  through  the  Blue  Ridge  minis- 
tering to  the  few  Catholics,  and  is  worn  out  after  his  labors. 
Five  churches  and  seven  presbyteries  in  this  State  are  the  work 
of  his  hands,  or  rather  his  head,  for  he  has  preached  in  almost 
every  large  city  in  the  North  begging  for  assistance  to  build 
them.  It  is  a  beautiful  picture  to  see  the  venerable  white-haired 
father  surrounded  by  his  people  before  they  leave  for  their 
homes  after  Mass.  Bohemians  and  Irish  are  one  in  heart  and 
mind,  and    seem    like    a   little    family,   listening    to    his  pleasant 


636 


The  Sacred  Heart  in  the  Mountains. 


[Feb., 


greetings,    and    his     Celtic   wit     and     story,    the   young   people 
especially  hanging    on    every  word. 


It  is  Christmas  morning,  bright  and  radiant,  with  a  lingering 
crispness  in  the  air  after  the  slight  frost  of  the  night.  The 
village  church-bells  are  calling  all  to  worship  the  new-born  King, 
and  the  mountaineers  come  down  the  hills  in  merry  groups. 
Up  the  avenue  the  little  flock  are  hastening  to  their  first  Christ- 
mas festival. 

In  the  chapel  they  gather  joyously,  and  stand  amazed  at 
the  decorations.     Laurels  and  rhododendrons  are  massed  behind 

the  altar ;  up  above  a  large 
scroll  hems  them  in,  with 
Gloria  in  Excelsis  blazing 
from  its  crimson  ground- 
work. The  altar  itself 
sparkles  with  lights  and 
colors,  "  while  the  pines 
shelter  all  in  their  soft 
feathery  embrace. 

For  the  first  time  the 
Adeste  is  heard  in  these 
solitudes.  To  the  younger 
ones  who  have  never  been 
inside  a  Catholic  Church  it 
is  new ;  to  the  parents  its 
well-remembered  tones  were 
listened  to  long  years  ago 
among  the  wild  and  rugged 
mountains  of  Bohemia,  and 
in  the  humble  chapel  under 
the  shadow  of  the  crumb- 
ling cloisters  of  the  Island 
of  Saints.  Tears  come  un- 
consciously and  unbidden,  but  they  are  harbingers  of  joy  and 
hope  to-day,  as  well  as  gratitude  for  all  the  happiness  God  at 
last  has  sent  them.  After  the  devotions  they  cluster  around  her 
whom  they  love  and  reverence  as  heaven-sent.  Every  one  has 
brought  her  some  little  gift,  the  small  boys  revelling  in  their 
selections,  while  she,  little  dreaming  of  their  intentions,  has 
surprises  for  them  all. 

The   parents  receive  a  large    mounted  picture  of    the    Sacred 


Aunt  Margaret  and  Columbus. 


I894-] 


The  Sacred  Heart  in  the  Mountains. 


637 


Heart,  especially  blessed  for  their  homes  to  remind  them  of 
their  fidelity,  and  the  young  people  something  they  particu- 
larly sighed  for.  Loving  words  develop  into  gay  ones,  and 
broken  German,  snatches  of  the  almost  forgotten  brogue,  and  the 
mountain  dialect  all  strangely  jumble  together  in  joyful  ex- 
citement. It  was  indeed  the  day  the  Lord  had  made,  and  one 
that  will  never  be  forgotten. 

This  is  the  last  of  the  sunny  weather,  and  for  weeks  follow- 
ing the  north  wind  comes  shrieking  round  the  mountains,  with 
ice  in  its  breath  and  snow-flakes  on  its  wings.  Six  times  they 
all  assemble  for  Mass,    only  to  be    disappointed  ;  the    old  priest 


In  a  Southern  Tobacco-field. 


left  home,  but  the  elements  drove  him  back.  Not  a  murmur 
from  them ;  all  their  sympathies  seemed  to  be  for  the  good  old 
man,  up  at  five  tottering  through  the  icy  streets  to  reach  the 
train,  and  never  succeeding.  Some  of  the  mornings  were 
almost  unbearable ;  the  wind  swept  up  those  peaks  as  if  off  the 
North  Pole.  One  family  driving  in  the  early  morning,  nearly 
frozen,  came  across  the  village  doctor,  almost  hidden  in  furs,  on 
his  way  to  a  dying  man  higher  up  the  mountain.  In  sheer 
amazement  he  asked  them  where  they  were  going  at  this  hour. 
"To  Mass;  our  priest  has  to  come  twenty  miles  for  us,  and  we 
ought    to    go     a    few    miles   to    meet    him."      "Well,"    he    said, 


638  The  Sacred  Heart  in  the  Mountains.         [Feb., 

whipping  up  his  horse,  "let  me  tell  you  no  one  but  a  Catholic 
would  come  out  on  such  a  day  as  this  for  church;  I  shouldn't,  I 
know ! "  It  was  only  after  six  of  such  morning  trips,  fasting 
each  time,  hoping  for  Holy  Communion,  they  were  at  last  re- 
warded. How  they  listened  to  the  old  father's  apologies,  and 
account  of  his  disappointments  owing  to  runaway  electric  cars, 
roads  blocked  with  snow,  besides  numerous  falls  on  the  shining, 
slippery  streets. 

Happy  Easter  has  come  and  gone,  and  to-morrow  will  be  a 
sad  day  in  the  mountains  ;  the  little  flock  are  in  desolation  at 
the  parting  that  lies  before  them. 

She  who  had  come  so  strangely  amongst  them  is  called 
North  by  other  claims  and   duties. 

At  the  little  wayside  station  they  stand  close  to  her ;  the 
children  first,  who  have  been  up  since  daybreak  to  be  in  time 
to  see  her  to  the  last.  The  men  show  their  grief  unblushingly. 
It  is  hard  work  to  keep  back  the  tears,  but  when  they  do  ap- 
pear they  are  not  the  least  ashamed  of  them. 

The  mothers  have  determined  to  reserve  all  sadness  for  an- 
other day,  as  her  last  sight  of  them  must  be  joyous. 

"  We  shall  never  have  Mass  again,"  they  wail,  "  if  you  leave 
us."  But  she  promises  them  better  things — and  she  means  it. 
One  Englishwoman,  full  of  caustic  humor,  says  with  a  mournful 
face :  "  I  always  said  when  God  made  this  place  he  forgot  it 
ever  belonged  to  him,  until  you  came  to  remind  him  of  its  ex- 
istence ;  and  now,  if  we  are  left  again,  God  will  never  think  of 
us  any  more."  "  Never  ?  "  she  smiles  ;  "  if  only  you  are  faithful 
he  will  be  always  with  you.  If  you  promise  to  go  to  Holy 
Communion  every  chance  you  get,  I  promise,  in  return,  that 
you  will  have  monthly  Mass  :  the  Sacred  Heart  does  not  begin 
a  work  and  then  forget  it."     And  they  promise. 

The  train  comes  tearing  in,  the  bell  rings,  broken  voices, 
warm  farewells — and  she  passes  out  of  their  lives  as  quietly  as 
she  came  into  them. 

And  now  for  the  fidelity.  Has  the  tiny  seed  sprouted  for  a 
time  and  then  withered  away  ? 

A  year  has  passed  since  that  first  Mass  of  the  Sacred  Heart, 
and  early  last  June  we  find  them  gathered  once  more  for  Mass, 
in  a  lonely  farm-house  buried  in  the  mountains.  The  old  priest 
has  kept  his  word,  and  once  a  month,  and  oftener  when  he  can, 
he  comes  amongst  them.  From  far  and  near  they  have  walked 
this  morning ;  some  Protestant  neighbors  being  interested  listen- 
ers to  the  good  priest's  simple   instruction  on  the  ceremonies  of 


1 894.]        The  Sacred  Heart  in  the  Mountains.  639 

the  church.  The  master  of  the  house,  one  year  ago  a  luke- 
warm Catholic,  is  to-day  the  proudest  man  in  North  Carolina; 
his  wife  the  happiest  ;  and  his  five  children,  who  did  not  know 
how  to  make  the  sign  of  the  cross,  are  now  monthly  commu- 
nicants. The  servants  of  the  wealthy  Southern  families  up  for 
the  summer  are  strong  in  numbers,  glad  and  grateful.  One 
faithful  Irishwoman  lifts  up  her  voice  with  exultation,  saying  : 
"  I've  been  coming  up  here  for  thirty  years,  and  this  year  is  the 
first  time  we  ever  heard  a  Mass.  Now,  praises  be  to  God,  we'll 
see  a  priest  at  last." 

There  is  always  general  Communion  when  the  father  comes. 
The  little  flock  have  not  forgotten  their  promise,  and  the  visit- 
ors, seeing,  go  and  do  likewise.  When  Mass  is  over  they  tell 
the  father  how  they  have  succeeded  since  his  last  visit,  how  they 
never  miss  meeting  on  Sundays  for  the  beads  and  catechism 
at  one  house  or  another,  and  he   stirs   them  on  to  fresh  efforts. 

Not  many  weeks  since  did  I  tear  myself  away  from  this  little 
mountain  mission,  its  poetry  and  faith,  its  never-to-be-forgotten 
scenes.  Back  into  the  humdrum,  bustling  life  of  the  North, 
where,  absorbed  in  the  world  and  its  ways,  I  can  only  steal 
passing  moments  to  live  once  more  amid  all  those  happy  days 
and  charming,  simple  souls,  whom  I  have  learned  to  know  and 
love  through  that  first  Mass  of  the  Sacred  Heart  in  the  moun- 
tains. 


640 


St.  Columban  and  the  Wolves. 


[Feb., 


ST.  COLUMBAN  AND  THE  WOLVES* 

By    P.  J.  Higgins,  M.D. 

UT  thro'  the  castle  gates  of  Annagray, 

His    frugal    repast — herbs    and    wild    fruits — 
o'er, 
The  Abbot  Columban,  at  close  of  day, 

Came   with  bare   head    and  sandaled  feet  to 
pore 
O'er  parchment  leaves  from  Scotia's  f  holy  isle, 

Writ  in  quaint  script  %  by  Bangor's  lonely  shore. 
Wan  were  his  features,  yet  a  tender  smile 

Lit  their  stern  lines  when  met  his  upward  glance 
The  Roman  walls,  where  pagan  sword  and  lance 
So  long  had  glinted  in  the  day-god's  rays, 

But  now  gave  place  to  cross  and  clanging  bell, 
While  vesper  hymns  supplanted  Bacchus'  praise, 
And  matin  chime  the  sentry's  "All  is  well!" 


Into  the  forest  turned  the  sandaled  feet, 

Where,  in  the  stillness  of  the  eventide, 
His  soul  might  linger  in  communior  sv    el" 

With  thoughts  endearing  of  the  C      -'if\e  \. 

Upon  a  mossy  log,  beneath  a  tree,, 

He  sat  in  shadow  •    spread  upon  his    (      e 
The  dingy  parchment,  and  in  silence  :■ .     i. 

*St.  Columban  [pronounced  Cullumaivn  ;  Latin  fo:  ■  Columbanus]  was  born  in  Ire- 
land, in  a.d.  539.  In  his  youth  he  was  educated  by  Senile  .  afterwards  in  an  abbey  on  one 
of  the  islands  in  Lough  Erne — probably  Devenish — and  finally  under  Saint  Congall  in  the 
famous  Bangor,  one  of  the  three  great  Irish  monasteries  of  that  epoch.  At  the  age  of  fifty 
he  started  en  his  mission  to  the  Franks,  accompanied  by  tweive  assistants.  He  established 
the  first  Irish  monastery  in  Europe  at  Annagray.  It  was  a  Roman  castle  situated  in  the 
Vosges  Mountains,  which  was  given  to  him  by  the  Merovingian  king.  He  afterwards  found- 
ed Luxeuil,  Fontaines,  and  Bobbio — the  latter  in  Italy — and  one  of  his  disciples  that  of  St. 
Gall,  in  Switzerland — all  famous  institutions  of  learning  for  centuries.  In  the  face  of  the 
greatest  trials  and  difficulties  his  mission  was  crowned  with  wonderful  success.  The  inci- 
dent with  the  wolves  is  narrated  in  his  biography  by  the  Abbot  Jonas  of  Bobbio,  where  St. 
Columban  died,  November  21,  615.  His  coffin,  chalice,  holly  staff,  and  Irish  missal  are  still 
in  existence. 

•f  Scotia.     The  name  by  which  Ireland  was  known  at  that  time  and  for  long  afterwards. 

%  Quaint  script.  The  letters  used  by  the  Irish  monks  were  not  the  same  as  those  on  the- 
Continent,  where  the  Roman  style  prevailed. 


00034004345 


FOR  USE  ONLY  IN 
THE  NORTH  CAROLINA  COLLECTION 


Form  No.  A-368,  Rev.  8/95 


